


Ifrits and Genies and Grad Students, Oh My

by niteynyx



Series: Nitey's Commissions [36]
Category: Original Work
Genre: (really the hypno is the focus i promise it just ain't here yet), Djinni & Genies, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hypnotism, Ifrit - Freeform, Modern Era, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Slavery, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29334852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niteynyx/pseuds/niteynyx
Summary: Long, long ago, a tribal warlord stopped thinking with his head and started thinking with his cock. The woman he meant to take as his personal sex slave seemed far too good to be true. Probably because she was. Many years later, an earnest grad student stumbles across a lamp that will change her life forever. Anonymous commission.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: Nitey's Commissions [36]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1896736
Kudos: 5





	Ifrits and Genies and Grad Students, Oh My

The Warlord smiled to himself, pleased with the work his people had done. 

He wore his pride openly for them to see, letting it gleam in his dark eyes as he soaked in every detail that lay below and before him. He sat comfortably atop his camel on a dune towering over the burning campsite, watching his warriors recover what they could before the flaming tents collapsed and their contents were lost to them forever. With one less tribe in the region, his people would have more room to prosper.

His eyes flicked away and towards the setting sun, passively observing the last of the attack’s survivors flee into the coming night. He had ordered his warriors to let them go; their flight would ultimately be to their advantage. 

They would find other tribes and spread word of what happened to their people, and those tribes would learn to fear the Warlord, remembering how his band dealt with the last fool stupid enough to insult him. Let him think he was a bloodthirsty tyrant; he only cared about his tribe and scoffed at the idea of trade when violence proved to be a far more valuable currency than goodwill. In a best case scenario, they too would leave the region -- or at least the threat of this happening  _ again _ would predispose them to placating any demands he might make of them.

The Warlord paused at the sound of someone scrabbling up the dune behind him and reached for his blade. Though he was certain every able man had been slain in the raid or driven off, it could easily have been a survivor, mad with grief and wanting to avenge their lost family and friends. When he looked over his shoulder, he relaxed. It was one of his tribemates, his sweaty face blackened with soot from the fires in the camp. In spite of that, he grinned at the Warlord, then planted his weight on his knees and panted to recover his breath.

“What is it?” the Warlord asked, lowering his hand from his weapon and looking back to his handiwork, committing the picture of it to his memory. The man was more than just another member of the tribe. His cousin, albeit his least favourite one, with a reputation for almost unilaterally being able to ruin anything he involved himself in. It wasn’t an entirely fair reputation, because that ruin wasn’t always his fault. Yet it was impossible to ignore that his presence was often the common link between the tribe’s worst turns of luck.

“We’ve-- we’ve found something incredible,” his cousin panted out, before pushing on his knees to straighten up, his grin only growing bolder and brighter. “You must come and take a look. Quickly, before someone does something stupid,” he urged, waving his kin along while he turned and started to slide and stumble his way back down the steep and sandy slope. “Come, come!”

The Warlord watched him go, his brow creasing. Fair or not, he had a bad feeling about this, but he knew he’d never hear the end of it from his uncle if he ignored his less than lucky cousin now. Blowing out a breath that stopped just short of a sigh, he put his heels to his camel’s flank and let it pick its way after his kin, following him through the chaos to an unexpected sight. His cousin led him to a small stretch of land that somehow eluded his sight atop his prior perch, improbably untouched by the chaos. 

The tent at its center was, in a word, quaint. Perhaps he had seen it and simply brushed it off in disinterest, its diminutive size making it somehow unworthy of his attention. Yet now two of his tribemates stood at its entrance, spears kept pointed at its closed flap. His cousin loitered near them, waiting eagerly for the Warlord to join them. Finding his curiosity piqued, the Warlord rode closer and slid down from his mount. If not for the spears, he would have assumed this was where they hid their true treasures.

“Be careful,” one of the spearmen whispered to him, clearly unnerved. “It’s--”

“Look,” his cousin exclaimed, reaching forward and grabbing the flap, pulling it back. “The only spoils of war in this wretched campsite worthy of you, my blood.” Immediately, the Warlord could tell something was distinctly  _ wrong _ with the tent’s interior. It took him several seconds to put his finger on it; the tent was well-lit, yet he could see no candle, no torch, no lantern. He frowned but ducked inside anyway, glancing over the tent’s sparse but opulent decorations. 

Strange things decorated the building’s walls, queer shapes of wrought silver encrusted with gems, serving no other purpose than to bear the weight of small silken bags and pouches that hung off them. The Warlord had to pause and do a double-take of the walls themselves. They were… _solid_ _stone_? His cousin stayed outside the tent, and the Warlord had yet to fully enter it. 

He took a step back out and glanced at its exterior, his brow creasing as his lips took on a heavy frown. It showed no evidence of the stone seemingly on its other side. The thin walls were patched and frayed. No longer trusting his sight, he reached out and trailed his fingers along it, certain he would feel the stone -- but no, he only felt the weathered material of the tent, pulled taut over its frame with just the barest amount of give. 

“We should burn this here and now,” the Warlord whispered, shaken and understanding now why the spearman warned him. “Fetch oil and a torch,” he told the other spear-wielding warrior, the one who had yet to speak but was obviously as affected as his fellow. He lowered his weapon and trotted off wordlessly. Then the Warlord felt hands on his back, urging him back in towards the tent while he was flat-footed.

“ _ Look _ , damn you,” his cousin laughed, seemingly unaware of what seemed obvious to the other men. “At least take her out of the tent before you burn it.” The Warlord reined in the immediate flare of his temper. Now that he was back inside the tent, he realized something else. It was  _ far _ more spacious than it should have been, considering its comparatively quaint appearance from outside. He glanced back at his cousin, ready to bite out at him.

Someone inside the tent moaned before he could, making the Warlord swing his gaze towards them. His fingers fell towards his blade once more, ready to draw but faltering as he saw what made the noise; the moan was neither pain nor pleasure, but the bleary dismay of a heavy sleeper finally roused. “What…?”

He didn’t notice the bed the first time he entered the tent, his dark, greedy eyes immediately caught by the glitter of precious metals and the shine of jewels that coated the walls. It must have been large enough for four if not five adults to comfortably lay on side-by-side. Plush rugs were spread over it, with a wild number of silken pillows strewn across them. The Warlord barely noticed the bed or its appointments now, only having eyes for the woman who laid upon it. She was, in a word, perfect. She was perfect in every sense of the word. 

She was also very nude, though not to say without decoration. While she wore not a single stitch of thread on her body, she accentuated every line and curve of her body with the most beautiful golden jewelry the Warlord had ever seen. Each piece’s lustre seemed to come to life when contrasted against her slightly darker skin, every inch of her flawless as though the harsh sun chose to dim itself rather than burn her flesh. Armlets showed off the soft tone of her biceps and bangles drew the eye to her slim wrists, while the rubies and emeralds embedded into her rings brought them to her graceful fingers.

Coins and bells decorated a chain that hugged the width of her motherly hips, the lowest trailing along her lean, smooth thighs. The Warlord felt his mouth go dry, his eyes following the length of her long legs until they bounced off her anklets. He already wanted to grab her legs and spread them; he wanted to sink his fingers into her thighs and squeeze them as he held them open. Slowly, he took a step forward, inspecting the rest of her, sweeping his eyes up her flat stomach. He had never seen a woman wear a piercing in her navel before, but he quite liked how the gold stud and its ruby looked.

He stopped right over the bed, feeling his cock stir to life as he gazed down at her heavy breasts. Though her body was mature, her skin was youthful and showed no sign of age; surely her breasts should have sagged and stretched, but they seemed as perky as a youth’s tits. Small golden bars pierced her tight, erect nipples. 

The Warlord’s first instinct was to reach down and pinch them, to feel what those bars made them feel like, but his hands didn’t move. His eyes continued their slow upward drag. Up the smooth column of her swan-like neck, only broken by her golden collar. A thin chain hung from it, like a leash. He soaked in the details of her face. Her lips were lush, as enticing as her breasts. And her eyes-- they were like warm amber, capable of capturing any man with their inner fire.

The woman’s thick eyelashes slowly fanned over them as she blinked and then blinked again, careless in how they met the Warlord’s dark gaze and held it. She gave a soft, feminine yawn and stretched, then slowly lifted her weight up on a single elbow, her sleepy haze fading. A woman like her was raw sexuality and sensuality, and he expected that to shine through when her lips parted to form words. 

“Who are you?” she asked him, her impossibly long dark brown hair falling like a nimbus around her. Her tone was lazy, indolent, and by the way her eyes did a brief sweep of the Warlord’s handsome face before returning to his eyes with mild disinterest, she was anything but impressed. In spite of all that, her voice was low and throaty, and he wanted nothing more than to hear her moan again, to hear what she would sound like once he drove her to breathless pleasure. No woman had ever complained about being bedded by the Warlord.

He had never stopped to consider why that was -- that it might have something to do with the threat and value of violence he loved so much, that even when he  _ didn’t _ mean to use it to his advantage, his reputation would always influence those around him. He did not, in that moment, become self-aware enough to reflect on that and reconsider the way he approached the desert vixen.

No, he just thought about how this was the camp’s true treasure and how right his cousin was. This woman was his by right of conquest, and the only trophy worthy of him in the entire camp. He smiled down at her and leaned forward, his fingers scooping around the chain attached to her collar. “Your new master, little flower,” he whispered to her as he took a step back and pulled. She shifted forward with the chain’s tug, crawling toward him and the edge of the bed, all swaying breasts in front, her perfect ass swaying just the same behind her. 

“Is that so?” his little flower seemed to purr, her eyes narrowing in catlike fashion as she got off the bed, her bare feet alighting on the floor. At her full height, she was several inches shorter than he was, but still a couple taller over the average woman. Her proportions were nothing short of perfect. Her hair should have been an unkempt mess with how long it was, thick and voluminous and going past the small of her back. Yet as she straightened, it almost looked perfectly kept and freshly brushed.

“Indeed,” the Warlord grinned. He didn’t want to wait, but the room still unnerved him in a way that her sheer presence couldn’t quite shake.“Come,” he bid her, leading his new woman out into the night.

*****-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-*****

**A long, long time later:**

Laila grinned, unable to contain her excitement. After what felt like  _ forever _ , she was finally being given her head. She was finally unshackled, uncollared, unleashed, free to do as she’d like among the dimly-lit shelves and heavy cement walls that served as her underground prison for so long. For what had to be  _ hundreds _ , if not  _ thousands _ of years. “Alright,” she whispered to herself, resisting the urge to rub her hands together and bounce on her heels.

Of course, hundreds of years was a gross exaggeration. Even a dozen years would be a gross exaggeration. If the museum’s underground warehouse was any kind of prison to her, it was a gilded cage without a lock on its door, filled with an endless assortment of curios and toys for her to entertain herself with. It even had a break area and a kitchenette. The only thing keeping her from  _ living _ down there was the lack of a proper bed, a hot shower and the spotty WiFi.

Just better WiFi would have been enough for her. She was a modern woman, after all. Access to streaming services wasn’t a luxury to her generation, it was a basic need. 

Laila loved working down there. The only thing she didn’t love about it was that she was a grad student, doing work directed by other people. Even as a child she found the study of history and ancient cultures enthralling, leading her to pursue a career in archaeology, leading her to where she was right then and there.

She learned pretty quickly that she didn’t like digsites. This warehouse, this archive, had become her happy place, even if her supervisor kept Laila far too busy with organization, cataloging, research and papers on this-and-that. Erin never gave her a chance to follow her nose or explore her personal interests. Laila knew it was deliberate. For one, the stern old woman  _ clearly _ hated her. 

And for two, well. Laila’s medications kept her ADHD in check, but she was still prone to distractions. She needed to be kept busy. Keeping Laila run ragged was her own request, knowing exactly how unproductive she could be without her bullet journal in one hand and a clear goal ahead of her. Sometimes, she regretted being so upfront about that.

But Erin was out this week, gone across the country to meet her newest nephew. When she told Laila where she would be, Laila expected her to hand off a  _ pile _ of work… but it seemed to have slipped Erin’s mind entirely. Did Laila feel a little guilty about not asking for more work?

Just a little. Just that tiniest bit so she could tell herself she was, and feel good about feeling bad about something ultimately inconsequential. Laila blazed through what she did have for the week in the course of two days, and then -- freedom. Laila unchained. For seventy two hours and some change, she could do whatever she wanted. Within reason, of course.

She felt like a kid in a candy store.

For the first hour, she puttered around the shelves without aim, letting herself really soak in the scale of the facility for the first time and the sheer amount of history inside it. There was something from every age and every era, from every civilization and every continent. For the most part, Erin had kept Laila working on things related to American history, planning on an exhibit about the Founding Fathers that was about two years too late to capitalize on Hamilton’s massive success.

It was interesting, sure, but one eventually gets tired of Benjamin Franklin’s filthy letters and rustic artifacts after a time. For Laila, that time came quicker than she expected. The women occupying her neighboring offices were studying ancient Egypt and the Italian renaissance. Whenever she caught sight of them bringing in a carefully crated artifact or stack of documents, she had to force herself not to daydream about being in their shoes.

She was both disappointed and relieved to learn the museum wasn’t hiding any stolen mummies or long-lost paintings. 

As a grad student, the last thing Laila needed in her life was for her job to take a sudden turn towards resembling a Dan Brown novel, not that she could remember the plot of  _ the Da Vinci Code _ for the life of her. All she could really recall was that it involved a lot of shenanigans in the Vatican. Modern mysteries were never really her bag; she loved science fiction and fantasy at heart. 

Sometimes, she found herself wishing the magic she often read about was real. That was another thing that led her to archaeology. As a teenager, she dreamed of finding tangible proof of it, whether that proof was truly arcane or occult magic or simply some ancient piece of technology that obeyed Clarke’s third law. As she grew older, that dream grew fainter and fainter, but it never quite went away. Though she didn’t know it, that wisp of a dream that remained rooted in her heart was about to change her life.

As she began to wander further and further from the shelves she was most familiar with, Laila kept her eyes up high, scanning the labels for anything that might catch her eye or at least capture her imagination. She gave a sharp gasp when she stumbled over her destiny in literal fashion, her flailing arms barely saving her from a nasty spill that would have surely shattered her glasses. 

Once she regained her balance, she drew in a deep breath and peeked down at what nearly rendered her blind. “Huh.” The crate was far, far away from the museum’s meager Arabic collection -- everything was alphabetical and Laila was standing in the ‘N’ aisle. Someone was being forgetful, if not lazy. But it wasn’t just labeled for the Arabic collection. It was also labeled for the Bedouin and by the number on the box Laila knew right away that whatever was inside was the only Bedouin artifact in the warehouse. 

Her dark brown eyes lit up with interest and excitement. What were the chances? She knew she had Bedouin blood through her mother, though she was never quite able to pin down how far back that blood went or even when her Arabic ancestors came to the United States of America. Beginning to smile, she scooped up the crate with all due care and started back down the aisle. She’d put it back in its proper place, after she took it back to her office and took a look at whatever was inside.

*****-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-*****

**An equally long, long time before:**

The Warlord took a long, winding path through his camp. He wanted everyone in his tribe to get a good look at his prize, so beautiful and soft in her decorated nudity. When he began to lead her, he expected her to blush or shy away from the eyes that fell upon her. He expected her to use her unrestrained hands to cover her luscious breasts or the wet treasure between her thighs, but to his surprise, she remained exactly the way he found her: indolent.

She smiled her lazy smile at everyone she caught looking at her, doing nothing to deter their leers. Whomever owned her before he did must have trained her well. There was no doubt in the Warlord’s mind that she was someone’s prized possession, not ‘garbed’ as she was without a hint of hardship on her body. He had forgotten about the oddities of her tent, too enraptured, too  _ horny _ to remember the distinct wrongness he felt inside it.

Or perhaps there was just something wrong with her mind and she had no concept of shame or humiliation. Whichever the case, the Warlord was simply pleased and increasingly proud of his acquisition, never even thinking to stop and ask her a single question about her. What her name was, why she was there. He just wanted to fuck her. The only reason he delayed was because he knew how much better her cunt would be, once he knew for certain that every man in the tribe was envious of what he had. 

Not every man was. Some saw her perfection and realized she was  _ too _ perfect. Those men avoided her eye, ducking their heads and walking away if the Warlord and his little flower were about to cross their paths. The Warlord took that for angry jealousy, finding it just as rich a treat as envy.

He never caught the way her lazy smile curled whenever she saw someone clue in on the inherent wrongness. The few that dared meet her eye even so were all given winks. On a woman like her, those winks should have been promising, flirty. Instead, it sent them hurrying away.

Soon, they passed into his tent, the tribe’s largest by far. He led her inside and secured the flap behind himself, then gave the leash a tug, drawing her to the center of the comfortable rug that sat in the room’s center. Once there, he turned towards her and finally took another moment to drink in her utter perfection. She smiled curiously at him, hands hanging at her sides, seeming perfectly content to just wait and see what would happen next. The Warlord studied her lovely face, then resolved to replace her smile with something far more lewd.

The Warlord slowly stepped closer to her, winding the chain of her leash around his fist as he drew closer and closer to her, until finally he stood looking down at her and she stood smiling up at him. Her brows gave a delicate arch, as though making a casual but silent inquiry as to what came next -- in truth, a taunt, a tease, a challenge. The Warlord rose to his little flower’s tiny bait, yanking on the leash and making her stumble a step closer to him with a soft gasp. Her hands quickly rose, catching herself against his chest. His other hand went low, finding the wet heat of her sodden cunt. 

The Warlord smiled to himself as she ducked her head in against him, the curve of his lips growing as he slid his fingers into her accepting entrance. When he heard her moan and felt her improbably tight cunt squeeze around his index and middle finger, he let himself grin outright. He already had his every move plotted out in his mind, knowing exactly how he would make her cum; how he would twine his new favourite toy around his fingers so she fell in love with the things he did to her. 

By the way the fingers of one of her hands curled and clutched desperately at his shirt, he suspected she would be even easier to win over than he thought. “Remember every moment of this, my little flower,” he murmured down to her, resting his jaw against the softness of her hair, inhaling its wondrous scent. It almost made him feel dizzy with giddiness.

“Oh,” she moaned out softly, her other hand slowly sliding down his body, “I will. I promise,” she whispered against his chest, meek and the very picture of submissive right up until she outright grabbed the stiff shape of his tented cock through his pants. He grunted his surprise. “It isn’t every day I let someone like yourself do this to me, ‘master’,” she said in her throaty purr. “You aren’t bad with your fingers… though you could stand to be a bit more delicate,” she teased, dislodging his jaw from her head as she leaned back.

The Warlord looked down and blinked at her in confusion, caught flat-footed by her sudden assertiveness and chattiness. In that moment, she said more than she had since he found her. She just smiled back at him, a hint of color across her cheeks from arousal without a hint of embarrassment. The proud arrogance and self-assured confidence behind her indolence was now creeping through the cracks in his little flower’s facade, but in his horny state, he didn’t recognize what truly stood before him. He just thought she was far more poorly trained than he realized. That was something he would have to rectify. “Did I tell you that you were welcome to touch my cock, woman?” he growled at her, used to getting what he wanted from the implicit threat behind the tone, so sure it would work here.

The would-be slave let her smile widen, showing just a flash of her pearly teeth. “Was I supposed to ask, ‘master’?” she asked, beginning to stroke him through the fabric that kept his cock tucked away and restrained. Her eyes widened by several degrees, as though she were an innocent scandalized by a slanderous accusation. “Since I’m so wet for you,” she whispered before he collected enough of his wits to interject, “I thought this was free for me to grab, too. It’s my fault that you’ve gotten so hard, isn’t it?”

Her attitude hardened his resolve to see her expression twisted with pleasure. By the time he was done with her, she wouldn’t even try to breathe without his blessing first. “Yes,” he growled in his irritation, his spelunking fingers picking up in speed, fucking her tight cunt recklessly, technique eschewed with his belief that harder was always better. She cut in before he had a chance to continue.

“Well! I’m very sorry,” the Warlord’s little flower said, her eyes widening just a little more. “Just let me take care of this problem,” she said, her voice growing breathy. As he went all the harder at her cunt, she shifted her stance and spread her legs wider, giving him easier access to her slick hole. Her hips gave subtle little rolls in time with his furious assault on her womanhood. As she tightened her grip on his shirt, her other hand crept up from his cock. He didn’t notice the amazing feat of dexterity it must have been for her to unbuckle his belt with just one hand; he only noticed a second later that she had yanked his pants down, exposing him.

“I meant-- yes, you need to ask,” the Warlord grunted out after a pause, feeling stupid immediately afterwards. Had he lost control of the situation? When he started doing  _ this _ , women always came quickly on its heels, moaning and screaming their pleasure. His little flower’s advice about  _ being more delicate _ went completely unheeded. She confounded him. Her sexual stamina must have been the thing of legends. What he didn’t realize was that unlike the other women who let him furiously fingerfuck their cunts, she didn’t fake an orgasm to get him to stop sooner rather than later.

“Oh!” the would-be slave exclaimed, her pouty lips pursing thoughtfully as her eyes narrowed up at him, the fan of her eyelashes betraying her undisguised amusement at his expense. “Right. Well, ‘master’, may I touch your cock?” she asked, her voice pitching back to that promising purr. She didn’t bother waiting for his answer, almost immediately dropping her hand again and curling her fingers around his thick length, stroking and pumping along his hardness. “Of course I may,” she whispered, cruel and capricious. “You couldn’t stop me if you tried. You’re strong but you’re not very smart, are you?”

The Warlord finally had enough of his little flower. Nostrils flaring, he yanked up on her leash, intending to pull her up to her tiptoes. “You’re going to regret your sass, girl,” he sneered at her. The force exerted on her collar made her neck crane painfully back, yet he found she didn’t lift even a hair off the ground, her bare feet seemingly rooted to the rug beneath her feet, sturdy as stone pillars. He grunted and did the only thing he could think of when confronted by a problem his strength couldn’t immediately solve -- or when his fingers weren’t able to drive a woman to a sudden (and almost always faked) orgasm within seconds of entering their cunt. He tried again, but harder, grunting as he put all his strength behind the upward tug.

The would-be slave’s smile grew into a grin, her eyes brightening with mirth. She barely rocked despite his show of force, swaying gently with it. For all the Warlord’s effort and despite the vast difference in muscle between the two of them, her feet remained firmly planted to the ground. “Is that all you’ve got, ‘master’?” she asked him, all but laughing at him as his face reddened with anger. He abandoned her cunt entirely.

“You bitch,” he snapped out, releasing the leash entirely and reaching to grab at her delicate throat with both hands, blinded by his agitation and his lust. As he squeezed at her neck, her grin only grew, wildly humoured and showing none of the fear or deference or submission he needed from her. He sneered at her, not thinking about his intent, about whether he wanted to kill her or just make him stop talking. Anyone else surely would have been cowed by him, but not his little flower.

Suddenly, he squeezed his eyes shut and let out a long, hissing groan, colored with his surprise. He had only a second to gird himself before his orgasm hit, one far harder and rougher than any he ever experienced before her hands. Rope after rope of his thick white cum shot out of his cock, splattering against her pelvis and belly. “Well,” she laughed at him, truly laughing, the noise like pealing bells. 

“I guess that  _ is _ all you’ve got.” All throughout, her fingers continued steadily pumping him, drawing out far more of what laid in his balls than he ever would have thought possible. His fingers slackened, sliding down the sides of her throat to instead grab on to her shoulders, holding them tight for support his legs desperately needed. He panted for breath, struck dumb in an instant by an orgasm he should have felt coming -- but still given a clarity he desperately needed earlier, with his lust disposed of.

This woman was not human.

Her pumping slowed and her fingers slid up along his cock, swiping the last drop of cum off the tip of his dick. As he opened his eyes, he was treated to the sight of her laving his seed off her graceful digit, her eyes lidding and then closing in exaggerated enjoyment at its taste. “Not bad,” she purred, tucking it between her lips to suck the taste of him clean off her. “Not bad at all.” When her eyes opened, he flinched back from the sight of them. When he first looked into them, they were warm like amber, practically shining with an inner fire.

Now that fire burned forth. The legends always said humans could recognize an ifrit by the fire of their flaming eyes. He thought that was stupid, and that such spirits couldn’t possibly exist. If magic were real, wouldn’t he have witnessed some by this point of his life? And wouldn’t flaming eyes just singe their eyebrows? The Warlord now understood what they meant. Their color warped and danced like an open flame, amber bleeding away into red and back again. 

“No,” he whispered, almost moaning the word as he began to understand just how badly he had fucked up. He felt her nails -- no, her  _ claws _ , the demon had claws now -- tear through his shirt and cut into his chest, dragging through his skin with deliberate purpose.

“Yes, yes,” she cooed back at his moaning denial of the situation, her smile like a blade now, her canines just slightly more pronounced. The Warlord’s would-be slave reached forward and stroked her fingers tenderly along his cheek, her touch blazing hot. He stared at her, mouth open and horrified, feeling those other claws begin to draw bloody little trails across his face. “I think… it might be time someone puts an end to your poor behaviour and teaches you a lasting lesson, boy.”

The Warlord squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in deep. Despite how warm her fingers were, he could feel his blood begin to run cold, fear gripping him like a vice. He was dimly aware of his legs beginning to shake and shiver. When he whispered, he knew his voice was nothing like he needed it to be, strong and brave and authoritative. “I’m sorry. Please don’t kill me,” he begged, sounding just  _ little _ and scared. He knew that in an instant her caressing and scratching could give way to a fatal display of her demonic strength and her razor sharp claw, and that would be that.

“Why would I do that?” the ifrit whispered, patting his cheek one more time before sliding that hand down to his chest as well, flattening both of her palms against its breadth. “That’s not a lesson. That’s an end, you foolish boy. And besides... I’d say you owe me a little something before I send you on your way,” she added in a far lower purr, taking a step forward. She didn’t push him, but he stumbled back anyways, falling back first upon his bed. 

“What--” the defeated Warlord tried to ask as he moved to sit up, eyes wide and scared.

Before he could, she pounced forward, on him in an instant and over him, straddling his hips and squeezing the outside of either of his thighs with her knees. The ifrit’s hands found his chest again and ripped the rest of his shirt wide open, pushing him flat down. Even with the revelation of what she was, even with her claws and flaming eyes and the nubbed horns sprouting from her forehead, she was impossibly beautiful, and the sight of her above him had his cock quickly hardening again. His libido was at odds with every other instinct he had, to run or beg or at least find a weapon and go down swinging.

“It’s no fair if you get to cum and I don’t,” she purred, her eyelids heavy as she gazed down at him, her claws beginning to trace over his chest again, their motions slow and deliberate as they drew his blood, never criss-crossing any previous cut. Somehow, he knew the scars she was giving him would last a very, very long time. He hissed with pain, his own fingers clawing at the bed beneath him. 

And then she lowered her hips. Without looking or reaching for his cock, she somehow managed to align her wet cunt with its eager length, impaling herself to the hilt in one smooth descent. She let out a heady laugh at the feeling of him inside, half a moan and half a giggle. The Warlord hissed out, pressing his head back against the bed. When his fingers were inside her before, he thought she was warm and tight, but now -- now she was molten, suffocating, her muscles twitching and squeezing at him. After a single roll of her hips, she let her walls do all the work, focusing on whatever her claws were doing. Her laughter subsided. She moaned breathily, sounding like a woman while being one in shape alone.

“Almost there,” she murmured to him. Some small part of the Warlord was surprised he hadn’t already spent himself inside of her, that he didn’t empty himself into her cunt the very moment she hilted his cock. “Just another moment… another moment… mrrrm…” Suddenly, she lifted one of her hands and slashed right through all the careful carving she had done, her plush lips parting in a pleased grin. “Finished,” she whispered throatily, her orgasm hitting her on the very last syllable, her grin vanishing as she threw her head back and cried out. 

The resultant spasm should have resulted in the Warlord hitting his peak as well. His eyes closed in anticipation, but instead of pleasure and the tightness of her otherworldly cunt, he felt… nothing. Not his bed beneath him, not her above him. When he opened them to see what had happened, only darkness surrounded him. Slowly, he picked himself up and looked around, finding himself disorientated and numb, dry-mouthed and confused. One feeling surfaced, a dull ache that left him certain of one thing. He had just been blue balled. Another rose after it, overtaking it as a sharp pain -- the symbols carved into his chest. 

Something was very different.

Back in the Warlord’s tent, the ifrit laid alone on her would-be conqueror’s bed, basking in her afterglow, hand between her legs and rubbing at her clit, lazy and indolent once more. She had nothing better to do but lay there and play with herself, watching and waiting as the new djinn’s vessel slowly materialized.

When it finished, she picked it up and left the tent. No one stopped the lovely, naked woman from walking through the camp in her gold and jewels, an ornate brass lamp tucked under the crook of her arms. They could see her for what she was now, and even those that leered at her before now fled her path. 

Not a single man of the Warlord after that. They knew they would never see him again.

**Author's Note:**

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